“That’s not a bad idea. Bit of a rest cure, eh? That’s the only disadvantage, I don’t mind telling you, of being married. I couldn’t leave the missus.”
W.G. babbled on happily. “Did you see the evening paper?” he said. “I see that fellow Griffin’s done for. I always said he’d come to a nasty, sticky end. Some woman or other. . . . I remember your saying that he couldn’t play footer because of his heart. Ah, well . . . that’s one swine the less, poor devil!”
When W.G. left him, Edwin called for a timetable and looked out the trains to Liverpool. There was one that started in half an hour. He caught it, and next morning presented himself at a shipping office in Water Street.
The medical superintendent received him.
“You want a ship? Well, you know, you look very young. When were you qualified?”
“Yesterday,” Edwin confessed.
“Very young. Still, you won’t be stale. You don’t drink, by any chance?”
“I’m practically a total abstainer.” The man scrutinised Edwin’s haggard eyes.
“H’m. . . . Well, as it happens, one of our men has failed us. I’ll give you a ship, the Macao, if you can sail to-morrow. Rather short notice, eh?”
“I think I can do it. What about equipment?”